Type in your problem
by Lucyinthesky1996
Summary: Based on the book "The Worry website" - 13 year old Sherlock and his friends post their problems on a website in their school, wondering what their futures will hold for them. Some Sherlock/John, just so you know.
1. Sherlock's problem

**A/N: Sherlock and his friends are about 12-13 in this. They are mean to be in Year 8. My friend read this and said it was very sad :L I don't know, I'll leave it to you. Enjoy! P.S The bold writing is when they are typing into the computer, the normal writing is when they are thinking aloud ;) **

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><p><strong>SHERLOCK'S PROBLEM<strong>

**Type in your problem:**

_**My_**_

_**My dad_**_

Oh, this is useless. I could type in a thousand things that are wrong in my life right now but I'd run out of pages to type on. I'm sick to death of everyone labelling me as "weirdo" or "freak" like I have no feelings at all. It's the older kids that get to me the most; the ones who are meant to be setting a good example to their younger's. _Ha_. They set a good example alright. An example that year tens are nothing but cold hearted, taunting prats.

No one likes me in this school. It's so awful walking in every day, just knowing you're going to get tripped up or laughed at or shoved into a locker. I hate my class. I hate the people _in_ my class. Especially Peter Anderson. He's_ always _horrible to me. Funny, when I first arrived I actually thought he liked me; we'd muck around in PE because we both found out we were both rubbish at football and sometimes we'd just linger around the lockers and talk about stuff that annoyed us, like teachers and girls. But then he went all weird and started avoiding me and began calling me names. I think it's because he's gone all nuts over Sally Donovan.

She hates me too. She always pulls a face, or sighs whenever I start talking. She was the one that made up the nickname "freak" for me and got everyone else to join in. I hate all of my class. Well…except for the new kid, John Watson. He arrived shortly after I did; all shy and nervous as he took the seat next to mine. The seat no one dares to sit in. I expected it to be the same old drill; someone sits beside me, gets freaked out in the first ten minutes then asked to be moved to the furthest side of the classroom possible. I was surprised that five minutes passed and John seemed perfectly relaxed. Ten minutes passed. Not a peep out of him. Twenty minutes. By then I had already named every state in America and corrected my teacher's grammar three times but John seemed unfazed. He just sat there, and every so often he'd smile at me. Not a mocking smile. A genuine, friendly smile.

So we were sort of friends after that, though we never really said anything to each other. Irene Adler is ok too I guess. She sometimes flicks a rubber band at me in the middle of science (she sits behind me) or teases me about my curly hair. But she'd good fun, I enjoy our banter. She doesn't hang around with Sally Donavon like most of the other girls do. She hangs around with John, more than often at lunch time I'd see her sitting on the playground wall reading a horror or mystery book. John would be there as well. He didn't sit on the wall; he did handstands against it. There were times when I would ache to join them, but I was nervous that I'd suddenly start coming out with mouthfuls of scientific nonsense and scare them away.

That's why people don't like me. I have this thing where I can work at people's emotions, personalities or private life just by looking at them. Mycroft calls it "deduction". The kids at school either hate it or are terrified by it. My first conversation with Molly Hooper was me telling her how I knew she owned three cats, her mother played squash on Sundays and the man who stitched the garments on her jumper was a deranged serial killer, just by the way she held her knife and fork. Now whenever I go near her she goes pink and shuffles away from me as if I'm going to attack her.

Dad hates my deducting as well. He's always angry nowadays. He criticizes everything I do and everything I don't do, if that makes any sense. Things weren't so bad when mum was alive; I remember the old dad, who used to laugh and read me stories and put me up on his shoulders and play imaginary games with me and do things a normal dad would do. Now he just shouts all the time and spends our money on alcohol and cigarettes. I used to love my dad but I don't know what to think of him now. Since mum died he's been drinking out of his mind. Then he started hitting us. Me and Mycroft I mean. I still have a scar from the last time he struck me across the face. I just tell people that I fell of my bike. I have to; otherwise they'll take us away and put us in care. And that's the last thing I want.

Dad hits me for almost anything now. For when I forget things, break things, or simply when he feels like he needs a human punch bag. I can deduct when he's going to hit me almost immediately; his pupils dilate, his fists clench, sweat begins to bead his forehead, his voice is a strained growl.

"There you go. Bloody deducting again. I thought by now I'd knocked some sense into you boy. I clearly haven't been knocking hard enough"

He hits Mycroft worse than he hits me. I remember once when I'd come home from John's house I came home and found Mycroft crying. This worried me, as the last time I'd seen Mycroft – my strong fifteen year old brother – cry was at my mother's funeral. He said he'd just banged his arm but there was something else, something he wasn't telling me. I could sense it in his eyes. But I just hugged him and said it was going to be alright. He had hurt the side of his face too, a nasty bruise was already spreading across his left cheekbone but it didn't cross my mind what might be going on until I went to bed. It was just as I fell asleep that I understood that my dad – the same laughing, smiling, imaginary games dad that I had once knew – could be abusing my older brother.

Who was I kidding? He was abusing _both_ of us.

I don't know what I'd do without John. He's the only person that is actually nice to me. He never judges me, never teases me or laughs at me or calls me strange. He seems to be fine with me the way I am. He actually finds my deductions fascinating! Most people tell me to clear off or simply hurry away from me, but he just stands there, eyes twinkling in awe as his lips curl up into an excited smile.

"That was…_amazing_"

I thought that was it. It _was_ as far as I was concerned. But after that he started following me around like a little dog, asking me all kinds of questions and asking me to deduct more things for him. Whenever I went somewhere boring like the library, he'd trail after me and say he wanted to read as well, though it was obvious that he was lying. I was more than happy for his company but it still puzzled me why he was different from the rest, why he found me interesting and not…well, a freak. I found I actually quite liked him. That was an understatement. I _really_ like him. I was worried he'd be put off being firm friends with me because of Irene but she didn't seem to mind us going around in a little trio. Sally Donavon would sometimes tease us and call us "The Freak Parade" but we'd ignore her. She doesn't seem that important anymore.

So maybe school is looking up a bit. Mycroft says good things come to those who wait. But I've been waiting almost a year for my dad to stop his drinking habits and be a proper dad to us. But nothing seems to have happened. So I'll just have to wait longer. Things have settled down a bit. There are still times when I hear Mycroft crying in his bed but I haven't seen dad drink in a long time and he hasn't shouted in a while.

My deductions don't fail me though. He'll snap any day now.

**Type in your problem:**

_**I'm starting to get eczema_**_

After all…

There are some things you don't want people to know about...


	2. John's problem

**JOHN'S PROBLEM**

**Type in your problem:**

OK…

_**My dad's gone back to Afghanistan and I'm starting to have weird nightmares_**_

There are lots of pictures of soldiers in some of the books I have at home. They're not quite the same as the soldiers are today; back then they wore weird white baggy trousers tucked into boots and had strange long helmets on their heads. My favourite picture in the book is of the captain (my dad's a captain) though his uniform is spoilt now because Harry tried to colour it in with red wax crayon. I was furious. Even though she's only little and I suppose she didn't _mean_ to wreck it. I minded because it was such a special book. My dad gave it to me before he left for war.

Dad's been a solider since I was little. I always used to wander why he was never around, even though mum told me constantly that was fighting bad people in order to make the world a better place. I still didn't understand but I made it my life long ambition to be just like him. I wanted to be a soldier. All through reception I wanted to be a soldier. In the Infants, when the teachers asked you what you wanted to be, you'd naturally reply with "A fireman" or "A policeman" but I'd always say I wanted to be a front line soldier in Afghanistan. Back then I was oblivious to the worried looks I got.

As I got older I began to understand a lot more about the war. Mum would help me write letters to dad and send him gifts if he was away at Christmas. I only see him once or twice a year now. It takes Harry a while to get to know him because dad left when she was just a baby. It's hard when dad comes home because as soon as he arrives, I'm counting down the days when he'll go back again and then it's all over too soon. It gets scary because mum starts crying a lot so I say that I'm going to look after her and Harry. I do look after them both. I'm almost like Harry's dad, though I do try hard to remind her of her real dad.

I didn't like starting a new school. We moved when I was in year seven so I left most of my friends behind. Brookside Secondary school was the nearest school to our new house. I couldn't stand my first day. When meeting new people I get all shy and worried so I didn't speak much. I had to sit next to this kid with black curly hair and sky blue eyes who everyone seemed to dislike. He seemed nice enough to me. He made me laugh when he managed to name all fifty states in America and correct our teachers grammar – three times. I thought about being friends with him. By lunchtime I'd befriended a girl called Irene who seemed feisty but a lot of fun. This is strange because normally I can't stand girls – having a little sister takes a lot out of you – but there was something about Irene that was really cool.

I knew Sherlock and I were going to get along when he started deducting things. It was incredible. He worked out that I had a baby sister, a phobia of dogs and I sometimes chewed my nails when I was nervous – just by the way I tied my shoelaces. I thought it was incredible. I started following him around a bit after that, wanting to hear more of his deductions as they entertained me so much. And we sort of clicked. Just like that.

But then the nightmares started happening. After we moved, everything was unfamiliar. I'd find it hard to sleep at night and when I did eventually drift off I'd see dad laying there, a bloody mangled mess whilst bombs and guns exploded around him. Then I'd wake up in a sweat. I refused to sleep after that, doing anything possible to keep myself awake. Sherlock would notice how exhausted I was the next day. I never told him about my nightmares. I didn't tell anyone. Not even mum. I thought I was just going through a "faze". But it carried on for ages, the same vision appearing again and again every time I shut my eyes. But I still didn't tell anyone.

I cheered up a bit afterwards when mum told me dad was coming home for the Easter holidays. We were going to throw a little party for him and mum said I could invite a friend. I felt a bit wary about inviting Sherlock. Some kids are happy to be your friends at school but get all awkward when they come to your house. But Sherlock seemed really pleased when I asked him, though his calm expression tried to mask it. So he came home with me and met my mum, my dad and Harry. He got on really well with Harry, he knew exactly how to hold her, he played games with her, he knew how to stop her from crying. He got on really well with my dad as well, though I got a bit bothered when dad started showing off, saying what brilliant grades he got for science when he was a "lad".

"My dad's a bit daft" I said, when Sherlock and I were alone in my room

"Your dad's great" Sherlock said, though he looked strangely sad, "I love your room by the way"

I didn't think much of it. The carpet was a muddy blue colour, the walls were peach and there was only room for my bookshelf and a chest of drawers to fit in. The only exciting thing about it was my stripy bedspread. I did have a nice porcelain rabbit which was on my bedside table. It was black with little sapphire eyes that glittered whenever the sun shone through them.

"I used to have a real rabbit" said Sherlock, touching it very gently with one finger, "But it died"

"How?"

"Something killed her" his voice was very quiet now, "Something horrible"

"I know a pet shop where-" I started to say but he was shaking his head

"No, I don't want another. It wouldn't be the same" he suddenly sobbed, "Nothing's the same anymore"

"Tell me" I said, sitting him down on my bed.

So he did. He told me all this stuff about how his mum died and his dad started drinking and killed his pet rabbit and now he hits him and his brother. I winced. I'd never questioned him about that scar on his cheek. When he was finished, there were tears rolling down his cheeks. I held out my arms and hugged him, allowing him to cry into my chest. I tried to think of what it must have been like to be Sherlock. My dad had a drink or two now and again but I'd never seen him _drunk_. And I couldn't imagine him ever hitting Harry or me. I don't think I could bear it if I had Sherlock's dad.

After he'd stopped crying, he sniffled, wiping his eyes on his cardigan sleeve.

"I'm so sorry Sherlock"

"Don't be. It's not your fault"

"Why don't you tell someone?"

"I can't! We'll go into care. And if we do, we might get split up"

"I know but…I don't want to see you get hurt Sherlock. I like you too much"

"No you don't. No one does. _Nobody_ likes me"

"_I_ like you Sherlock. Very, very much"

We both cried a bit and hugged each other again.

"You won't tell anyone, will you John?" Sherlock said quietly

"Of course not" I replied, thought I felt doubtful.

I told Sherlock about the nightmares I'd been having and he gave me a strategy. He told me to re-write the story in my head and think of something good for a change. I tried it and it seems to have worked so far. There are still times when I wake up at night but I've learned to control my dreams. I can re-create those horrible visions in my head and turn them into something happy. I was sad when dad had to go back to Afghanistan after Easter but also relieved that I had one less stress on my mind. I guess I owe it all to Sherlock really.

Now I just wish I could return the favour.


	3. Irene's problem

**IRENE'S PROBLEM**

**Type in your problem:**

_**I don't want my mum to be a prostitute_**_

Money has always been an issue in my family. Well, I say _family_. My dad ran off years ago and my older sister Kate is serving time for drug possession so it's just me and mum at the moment. We've had trouble with money since I was born; we live in a council estate and risk eviction any day now. My mum' works shifts at the local fish and chip shop, she babysits, she works part-time at a hairdressing salon at the weekends and she still can't keep up with the rent.

She put all her money into sending me to school. Brookside Secondary school didn't come cheap but it was the closest school to the estate and seemed to offer a good curriculum so mum put all her savings together for me to go. I didn't like school at first. The way the other girls bitch behind your back and the boys ignore you and the teachers patronize you because they know you're from the estate. So I would just wander around on my own most of the time, keeping to myself and reading my horror books. Then one day the new boy who was blonde and very short came up to me in class and shyly asked for a pen.

I count myself lucky to have John as a friend. He doesn't care that I live on an estate or my mum is penniless, he just likes me for me. You'd never picture us being friends; I'm a feisty backchatter who doesn't give in to anyone whereas John just keeps his mouth shut and gets on with it. He came up to me in the playground the very same day and watched me from a distance as I shot hoops with a net ball.

"I wouldn't stare too long" I said, not turning to look at him, 'Your eyes might fall out"

He blinked and rubbed his eyes, as if he was checking to see if they were still there.

"I'm Irene" I said, tucking the ball under my arms and giving him a fist punch with my spare hand. He knocked it pathetically.

"I'm John" his cheeks tinted pink, "…is that yours?"

He nodded at my paperback novel of "Frankenstein" which was poking out from the top of my bag

'Yep" I said proudly, "I'm almost finished"

"I didn't think girls read horror books"

I frowned, closing in on him, "You being sexist?"

He cowered away from me, as if I was going to hit him. I laughed.

"Take it easy, I was just poking fun"

He laughed nervously. So we were friends after that, me and him. I didn't think much of Sally Donovan, the girl everyone seemed to hang around with so me and John were just a little duo all by ourselves. At lunch I would sit on the playground wall reading while he did handstands against it. It seemed that school was looking up so I cheered up a bit. But things weren't going so great at home.

Mum told me that she was going out that night and I'd have to have the leftovers for dinner. I didn't think much of it. I assumed she was just job hunting or going out with friends to clear her head. She was wearing a strange outfit; a very tight skirt with fishnet tights and a low cut top which was very…revealing. I just assumed she was trying something knew. What an idiot I was. She started going out almost every night, she'd leave around six and not get back until after I'd gone to bed. Sometimes I'd wake up in the morning and she'd still be gone. But still I wasn't suspicious; my mother was a grown woman, adults sometimes went out and came back late so there was no problem, right? It was the night mum came back with a bruise that I became suspicious. She came in, said nothing to me and went straight to her room. When she emerged hours later I could see she'd been crying and not just that – she had a large bruise forming on her right eyelid. It'd definitely not been there before.

"Are you okay mum?"

"Yes" she rubbed her eyes, "Yes. I-I just banged myself, that's all"

My mother's never been a good liar. I talked about it with John the next day at school, about how my mum always left late at night and about how she came home with the bruise. John suddenly went all funny and fidgety when I started talking about her creative outfits. They were getting stranger by the day. I opened her wardrobe one day and found several pairs of handcuffs, leather gloves and a riding crop lying underneath a hoard of tight red dresses.

"Irene" he said, his cheeks turning a pure shade of scarlet, "I think…I hate to say this but…I think your mum's a prostitute"

Everything came down on my like a ton of bricks. How could I have been so _stupid_? How could I have not seen it before? All the signs had been pointing me to the answer but I'd been too oblivious to see it. Maybe I didn't want to see it. All of a sudden mum was earning up to £250 a day and she never told me where the money came from. There was no need for her to lie anymore. I knew what she was doing. She was selling love to random strangers just to get a few quid. Not just that, she was advertising herself as "_The Dominatrix_" I knew because I'd found a leaflet in her drawer with her on it, brandishing the same riding crop. She'd obviously made it herself. But _why_? This was my _mum_ I was talking about. Then I realised.

She was doing it for _me_

School still has its ups and downs. John's palled up with that Sherlock Holmes and has started following him everywhere. I didn't like Sherlock at first. I found his deductions so irritating I wanted to murder him but John actually found them interesting. They would slope off together and talk at the back of the class and sit together at lunch while I hovered around them, not knowing whether I was part of their friendship group or not. Who did Sherlock think he was; taking _my_ friend away from me? I decided I wanted nothing to do with either of them and stalked off on my own, though I felt miserable. John came beetling up to me one day and asked me why I never hung around with him anymore.

"Because you've got _Sherlock_" I said, irritated

He blinked, "So?"

"_So_, you don't need me anymore. Recently you've hardly noticed I'm there! You go off with him and talk behind my back. Well I don't care anymore. Be his friend if you want to. Just don't think I'm going to stick around and be your reserve"

I don't think I've ever been so close to crying. John noticed and gave me a hug.

"Irene, I _am_ your friend. The only reason I've been hanging around with Sherlock lately is because…" he glanced around nervously, then leaned forward, "You can't tell anyone this but…" and he started telling me all these things about Sherlock's dad and how he hits him and his brother. When he was finished I bit my lip.

"How…awful" I said, feeling the guilt swell up in my stomach

"I think Sherlock would really like you Irene. You should hang around with us sometime"

So I did. And it's alright I guess. Sherlock still deducts things off me which drives me crazy but he's actually good fun. Him and John get on really well too (hmm) It's nice, just the three of us. It helps me take my mind off of things. I sit behind Sherlock in science and occasionally flick a rubber band or an eraser at him which winds him up. But he's nice. A lot nicer than most of the other boys.

Life at home was about to get worse though. One of my neighbours, a cranky old woman who does nothing better than poke her nose into other people's business, rang social services and told them I was being neglected. They almost took me away from mum and now it's like we're being monitored daily. Mum still goes out some nights and sometimes she comes home battered from her latest client who sees her as some kind of human punch bag. I wander how Sherlock feels when he is on the receiving end of his father's beatings.

I don't know if there's going to be a happy ending to this story. School is looking up, I have two good friends and we have enough money now to support ourselves. But I just wish there was another way for everything to turn out alright. I wish my mother didn't have to disgrace herself and put herself through so much pain and trauma just to get a little bit of money.

I don't know what the future holds, but I do know one thing.

I never want to be like my mum when I grow up.


	4. Sally's problem

**SALLY'S PROBLEM**

**Type in your problem:**

_**Everyone thinks I'm a bully_**_

Sometimes I hate being popular. I feel like everyone's being my friend because they're scared of me. My so called friends will smile in my face then call me a bully behind my back. Everyone thinks I'm a bully. They think I'm a bully because I made Sherlock cry. But it wasn't my fault. I didn't mean it. It was a_ joke_.

No one really liked Sherlock to start off with. He could tell what a person had eaten for breakfast, if they'd had a late night and what fabric their pyjamas were made of just by taking one glance at them. "Deducting" he called it, and it freaked me out. My two best friends, Molly and Sarah didn't like it either. Well, Molly _said_ she didn't. We would talk about it at lunchtime, making up weird nicknames for him and laughing behind his back. Not in a mean way, we were just teasing. Then I came up with the nickname "freak". I never meant anything by it. It was a joke. But then Sarah started repeating it and then suddenly the whole class was at it, yelling "freak!" whenever Sherlock walked past.

I decided to go along with it, seeing as I had started it in the first place. Sherlock didn't seem to mind; I don't think he enjoyed it but he never said anything against it so I assumed he just took it as a joke as well. But then the joke went too far.

I had always wandered where Sherlock had got that scar on his cheek from. He said it was from a bicycle accident but I always had a feeling he was lying. Sarah had overheard John telling Irene that Sherlock's dad hit him and that's where he actually got it from. That unsettled me; the kid I'd been calling freak was actually an abused child. Sarah and Molly tried to assure me that it was probably just a rumour but it stayed ay the back of my mind, bugging me whenever he passed me or glanced at me in class. So I continued taunting him as a distraction.

Then one day I went into class and Sarah, Molly and some of the other girls were huddled together in the corner of the classroom, whispering to one another. Peter Anderson (who everyone said had a crush on me) and Sebastian Wilkes were there as well. When I asked them what was going on, Sarah had a twinkle in her eye.

"We're going to trick the freak" she said menacingly

I didn't understand at first but they told me I'd find out sooner or later. I was the diversion; I had to lure Sherlock to his locker and get him to open it someway. Then whatever it was would be in there. I wandered what trick they had up their sleeve. Maybe they'd put a spider or some kind of scary mask in there. But for some reason, I doubted that would scare Sherlock. It had to be something really horrible.

I caught up with Sherlock in the corridor and asked him if I could put some of my books in his locker, as I'd lost my key (BIG lie) He seemed suspicious of my polite tone; most of the time I just sneered at him whenever he came near me. But he went with me to the lockers anyway, though the suspicious look didn't go away. I suddenly felt bad. He opened his locker and suddenly screamed, falling backwards onto the floor and cowering away, his face the picture of utter horror.

Laughter erupted from around us and the others emerged from behind the lockers, giggling like Devils. A horrible, murky stench hit my nostrils and when I looked into the locker, I nearly threw up. A rabbit carcass was sprawled across his science books, its neck practically hanging off. One of its eyes had been gouged out and it had a leg missing. I couldn't believe they had done such a disgusting thing. Sherlock was a freak but…I didn't hate him that much. The laughter suddenly ceased when we saw Sherlock had curled up into a ball, his body shaking as he sobbed. Molly suddenly started twitching nervously, Peter was chewing his lip and Sarah's eyes were wide. Sherlock never cried. We thought he was emotionless.

John and Irene had heard the commotion and had come to see what was going on. At the sight of Sherlock, John turned pale.

"What did you _do_?" he said, dropping next to Sherlock and gathering him up in his arms. His nose caught the stench and he saw the dead rabbit hanging out of Sherlock's locker. He stared at me in horror.

The noise had also attracted the headmaster, Mr Lestrade.

"What the _hell_ is going on around here?" he exclaimed, as he looked at us then at Sherlock who was still weeping in John's arms

"Ask _Sally_!" John almost shouted, "She's the one who did it!"

I was appalled. Surely my friends weren't going to let me take the rap for this. But they didn't say a word, just shifted awkwardly, letting me take the blame. Even Peter Anderson didn't have the guts to speak up.

"How could you be so _heartless_?" Irene almost screamed at me, "What is your _problem_?"

"Stop acting like a wounded princess!" I yelled back, thinking retaliation was my best defence, "Why don't you go back home to your slut of a mother?"

She attacked me then, pushing me up against the lockers, pulling at my hair. I started scratching her face, trying to prise her off me when she suddenly shoved me aside so I fell heavily onto my arm. She wasn't finished there. Everyone gasped as we did our best to kill each other, rolling around on the floor like insane cats. We probably would have fought to the death had Lestrade not prised us apart.

"That's ENOUGH!" we all jumped out of our skin, "I am ashamed of all of you! Pranks, fighting, I expected better of you lot! I want you all in my office, _now_!" he wrinkled his nose at the dead rabbit, "And get that thing out of here!"

I'd never been to the headmaster's office before. I'd normally been able to stay out of trouble. But now…now I was being blamed for something I hadn't even done.

"How _could_ you?" John yelled at me as we all sat awkwardly outside the office, "Do you know how _sick_ you are? I can't believe you could do something like that to Sherlock!"

"But I didn't-"

"Oh come on Sally, you _really_ expect us to believe you" Irene butted in, still wiping the traces of blood from her bottom lip, "You've been nothing but a bitch to Sherlock since he came here!"

"Do you want to say that again Adler?" I threatened, surging forward to hit her again. I would have done, if Molly and Sarah hadn't held me back.

"Stop it! You've done enough! You've done enough to us_ and_ you've done enough to Sherlock!" for a small boy John really had a voice on him

"He had it coming!" I yelled back, "The freak deserved it! Honestly, being scared of a little dead rabbit. What a wuss!"

"His dad _killed_ his rabbit!"

There was silence following John's outburst. I heard Molly gasp. Sebastian glanced at Peter. Sarah put a hand over her mouth. John looked down at the floor, his hands beginning to shake a little. I felt the blood drain out of my face.

I got away with a double detention that day. My so called friends were too chicken to say they were part of it too and they got away with chewing gun patrol. Whenever I walk past Sherlock now he glares at me, or walks in a different direction or puts his head down so he doesn't have to look at me. Molly and Sarah still hang around with me but I can tell they feel rotten about not owning up. Peter hasn't spoken to me since. Sebastian always scuffles away from me whenever I go near him. They even have a new name for me now. "The bully"

Sometimes I want to go up to Sherlock and say sorry and tell him the truth. But I can't, not now. People are too afraid not to be my friend now. For some reason they think I'm going to attack them whenever I walk past and people have become cautious when opening their lockers. I am being blamed for something I haven't done, and there are times that I wish I'd kept my big mouth shut. Now I know what it's like to have a nickname.

I will never call Sherlock "freak" again. I don't think anyone will.


	5. Peter's problem

**This is Anderson by the way, I just gave him the name Peter ;D**

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><p><strong>PETER'S PROBLEM<strong>

**Type in your problem:**

_**The prank was my idea. And I let Sally take the blame_**_

I thought Sally wouldn't like me if she thought I was Sherlock's friend. I thought if I pretended to hate him, she would like me back. I was wrong.

Me and Sherlock got along great at first. Even though his deducting skills drove me up the wall, like they did with most people, he was still interesting to talk to. And good to copy off in lessons seeing as he always got everything right in everything. But then Sally happened. And I knew I couldn't be his friend anymore.

I don't know when I first started liking Sally. I just sort of…grew on her. She was fun, she was pretty…I don't know. She was just Sally. The girl _everyone_ liked. And for a while I actually thought she liked me. Turns out she thought I was as weird as Sherlock.

I don't really know why I thought of the prank. I was just bored. And anyway, I thought if I did it, Sally would like me more.

It was the day I was sitting in the playground with Sebastian Wilkes that I first thought of it. We were scratching our names on the stairs with little rocks when he suddenly bought Sherlock up.

"You seen the freak recently?" he said, without looking up.

"No" I mumbled, I didn't really like it when they referred to Sherlock as "the freak". He had a name.

"He's been hanging around with that John Watson a lot lately" he leaned forward and started to whisper, "_I_ heard him and Sherlock have been snogging"

"Snogging?"

"You know, _kissing?_ Smooching, making out, tonsil tennis. Get it?"

"Yeah, I get it"

"Anyway, what do _you_ think? Think he's a queer?"

"Erm…"

"Hey, you two!"

I turned around. _Great_, Anthea Williams. That's all I needed.

"You talking about Sherlock again?" she swooned above us, her brown hair tumbling threateningly past her shoulders.

"No" I said, feeling my cheeks tint pink

"Don't bother lying" she folded her arms, "I heard what you were saying"

Anthea Williams is two years above us, in year ten. She's always hanging around with Sherlock's older brother Mycroft and now she seems to be his own personal watchdog, sniffing around to make sure no one picks on Sherlock. Plus she is always on her phone, texting. But now she was frowning down at me, hands on her hips.

"You do realise what Mycroft will do if he hears you talking crap about his brother don't you?"

I shuddered. Mycroft Holmes was well known for showing people where they stand.

"Just watch what you say" her phone suddenly beeped and she resumed in texting as she walked away from us back down the playground. No doubt to report back to Mycroft.

"_Bitch_" Sebastian muttered, which made my cheeks flush red, "It's about time we taught that freak Sherlock a lesson. _Then_ she'd have something to say to Mycroft"

I shuffled anxiously. Sally had passed in the playground and for a moment my eyes wandered after her. She looked so perfect in our school uniform; our school's terribly old fashioned and the girls have to wear dull navy gymslips. But she seemed to bring out all the colour in her dress. Her hair seemed glossier than usual; maybe she'd added a bit more hairspray. I saw her cast a glance at Sherlock and John who was sitting with Irene Adler on the playground wall and roll her eyes in dusgust.

"We should play a prank on him"

Sebastian frowned slightly, "What?"

"The freak" the word tasted like poison in my mouth, "We should play a prank on him. A really bad one"

"…tell me more"

Once I got started, I couldn't stop

"We…we should put something in his locker"

"Yeah! Something really gross. Like…like…"

"A dead animal" I blurted out before I could stop myself

He stared at me, looking surprised.

"Wow Pete, I'm impressed. For a moment there, I thought you actually _liked_ the freak"

I laughed nervously though dread was welling up inside my stomach. Sebastian told the others of our plan and we discussed it the next day.

"Where are we going to get a dead animal?" Sarah asked

Sebastian wrinkled his nose "Well _I'm_ not getting it"

"Maybe this isn't a good idea" Molly added nervously

"That freak needs to learn to keep his mouth shut" Sebastian snapped a little too harshly, "Someone needs to do it"

I bit my lip nervously, "…I'll do it…"

They all looked at me.

"Will you be able to get it?" Sarah looked shocked

"Yeah…don't worry. I'll find something nasty…"

If you ever walk through my neighbourhood, your guaranteed to see a dead animal lying somewhere. Cats, foxes, birds, even dogs sometimes. The area I live in is what you could call a rough one. The kids there never go to school; they spend all day carjacking, or throwing stones at people's windows or – in this case – torturing animals. I don't think they always mean to kill them. But they do and then they just leave them there to decay on the street. I found the dead rabbit in the alley way behind my house. I couldn't tell whether it'd been mauled by a fox or a dog or the boys from my neighbourhood had got it. Either way, it was dead. Neck hanging off, blood all over it, ear missing.

_Poor rabbit_

I don't want to describe taking it to school. I just put it in a plastic bag as quick as I could and tried to ignore the stench and the buzzing flies. I bumped into Sebastian in the playground before school. He almost retched when he smelt it.

"Well…is that it?" he asked though it was pretty obvious

I said nothing, just shoved the bag into his hands and led him to Sherlock's locker. Sarah was already waiting for us. She'd picked at the lock with her hairpin and had successfully got it open. We put it in there as quickly as we could and re-locked it. Mission complete.

Sally was meant to lead Sherlock to his locker whilst we waited and hid behind the other lockers to get a glimpse of the action. I can still remember the scream…it was horrible. Everyone burst out laughing and for a second I was laughing as well, not because I wanted to but because I _had_ to. But I never expected Sherlock to cry…that was the last thing anyone expected. Everything else was just crazy after that.

I looked at Sebastian and knew in a second that our plan had gone horribly wrong as Irene tackled Sally to the floor and Lestrade was shouting and pulling them apart. Outside Lestrade's office, when John and Sally were at each other's throats and John said all this stuff about Sherlock's rabbit, I wanted to cry a river. When Lestrade blamed Sally for the whole thing and no one stood up for her, I wanted to scream the truth. When Sherlock emerged from the medical room, red eyed and shaking so much he had to be supported by John, I wanted to crawl away and die.

But I didn't. Because that's just me. Coward, coward, coward.

I tried talking to Sally, to try and explain. But she didn't want to know.

"You_ really_ thought I'd be interested in _you_? Don't give me that look, it was obvious from a thousand miles. I can do _much_ better than you, Peter Anderson. I don't date freaks"

And then she walked away. And I knew she was crying.

Sherlock doesn't even look at me anymore. He knows it was me, he knows. He probably deducted it again. I try not to care, I just call him freak to distract myself. If _I_ hate him, maybe it'll take away the guilt. Sally and I rarely speak now, probably because she knows I betrayed her, that I'm the reason everyone calls her "bully". I know now what a big mistake I made, and how stupid I was to go as far as that to get a girls attention. But I know that "sorry" is not going to mean anything now.

Maybe one day I'll have the guts to apologise. But until then, I'll have to despise Sherlock Holmes and keep on denying my feelings for Sally Donavon.


	6. Molly's problem

**MOLLY'S PROBLEM**

**Type in your problem:**

_**I like this boy…who likes boys_**_

I shouldn't like Sherlock Holmes. He's been horrible to me ever since we first met. Well, maybe horrible is a bit of an exaggeration. Let's just say he's been oblivious to the fact that I exist.

I've liked Sherlock since Year 7. I can't help but go bright red whenever he passes me and I have to shuffle away quickly before he sees the look on my face. I've tried many times to get his attention. I'd deliberately drop my books in front of him but he'd just point out that they were lying on the floor (as if I didn't know that already) and walk on. I tried a bit of lipstick, hoping it might bring out my face a little; but he barely noticed. He did remark on how small it made my mouth look though. I even tried a change of clothes, customising my school uniform a bit. But it didn't work. He just went on ignoring me and pretending I didn't exist.

I don't have that many friends in this school. I'm not exactly _lonely_. I have Sarah and Sebastian to talk to, even though I'm not keen on them much anymore because of the prank they pulled on Sherlock. I feel bad sometimes because I did nothing to stop it and now I wish, wish, wish I'd said something. Things have changed a lot recently. Me, Sally and Sarah used to hang out a lot, just mucking around as friends do. I still hang around with Sarah, because I don't want to be on my own, but I don't like Sally anymore. She's horrid to Sherlock and she got everyone else to be horrid to him too.

I thought Sherlock would hate me after what happened. It wouldn't have made much difference; he barely noticed me anyway. But to my surprise, he came up to me while I was getting my books from my locker. He'd been wary of lockers since the rabbit incident and he kept glancing around before talking to me.

"Molly…can you keep a secret?"

I nodded, struck dumb

"…we need to go somewhere more private"

He took my hand and led me into the caretaker's closet which was along the corridor. My heart skipped a beat a little when he touched me. Inside, he made sure no one was listening in before turning to face me.

"Molly…" he licked his lips almost nervously, "I know you think that I barely notice you and I take you for granted. I know you think you don't count but…you're wrong. You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you"

I felt myself flushing red. I hoped this was going where I thought this was going.

"I've had some...feelings recently. Indescribable feelings. For somebody in this school. Somebody I know quite well actually"

My fingers started twitching.

"And…I think it's time I told them the truth"

I thought I was going to burst inside

"And because I trust you, I'll know you take my feelings seriously. Because the person I like…well, it's a little unusual…"

"Go on"

"…well, I think you know this person quite well. Do you think they like me back? I mean, normally I can deduct this sort of thing…"

"I think they like you much more than you think" I said quickly

He stared at me, "Really? Should I go for it? Should I tell them how I feel?"

"It'll make you feel better to get it out in the open" I felt a small buzz in my stomach

"Great. I just hope John feels the same way"

My face fell, "…John?"

"Yes…I know it's a little awkward but, I really like him. I was thinking about – I don't like the phrase 'asking someone out' – but something like that. Are you alright Molly? You've gone terribly red"

"I'm fine"

"Well, wish me luck then. Thank you Molly, I knew I could rely on you"

I didn't say anything as he slipped away out of the door. I just stayed in the caretaker's closet, letting the feeling of sheer disappointment hit me like a bullet. I suddenly felt like I'd been torn in half. So this is what heartbreak felt like?

At hometime I saw Sherlock walking down the playground with John. They were talking. Sherlock seemed nervous but John was nodding and smiling. They linked hands and continued walking and I could see Sherlock's thumb stroking across John's knuckles. Less than a week later, Sebastian Wilkes was telling us of how Todd Dimmock had caught the both of them kissing by the lockers. I tried to ignore it, I tried not to cry. But I couldn't get over it and I still can't.

Now I have to face Sherlock every day and remember what he did to me. It wasn't his fault; John's so lovely, I can see why he likes him. But it'll take me a while to get over it. I tried going out with the shy kid, Jim Moriarty a couple of times. But he never spoke to me properly and sometimes I had the feeling that he'd rather not be my boyfriend at all, so it didn't last.

I shouldn''t like Sherlock Holmes, but I do. Even though he'll never feel the same way for me.

Maybe I'm just not meant for relationships.


	7. Jim's problem

**JIM'S PROBLEM**

**Type in your problem:**

_**I'm tired of being invisible_**_

What is there to say?

What good do words do? Words, words, words. They're just writing on paper. Words can't describe what you feel, not properly. On paper they're just blank with no emotion at all. Paper can't speak. But if it could, it'd probably get more attention than I do. For God's sake, I'm talking in bloody riddles again.

I might as well not go to school. Whenever I'm in school, it's like I'm not there. The other kids and sometimes even the _teachers_ completely blank me whenever I'm around. I used to be quite a confident person; I wouldn't hesitate to go up to someone and make friends or answer a question in class. But Year 7 made me nervous, all the new people and new surroundings, and soon I became too shy to say anything. I never said a word; throughout all of Year 7 everyone thought I was some kind of mute. I don't know, maybe I am. Half the time, I feel like I _can't _speak, incase I say something wrong.

Home is even worse. I don't have a brother or a sister. I have a mum, but she's not around much because she has this new boyfriend. I have a dad too, but he doesn't understand me properly so I don't bother talking to him. I just talk to myself most of the time. It's hard living in a house where your knowledge and capability is underestimated and people assume you're just a naive child. I'm not just a child; I'm a genius. No, I'm not being arrogant. Believe me, sometimes being a genius is nothing to be proud of. It means you miss out on a lot of your childhood.

I've been described as having a "warped imagination" and a suppose in someways it's true. I love seeing things blow up; from a young age I've been fascinated by explosions and bombs and how they work. Don't ask me why, I have no idea. I think it's the sound I like – the sound of the world collapsing around you and then coming to an abrupt halt in a pile of debris and smoke. By God, I _do_ have a warped imagination.

Friends? I don't have friends. I don't _want_ friends. Who needs them anyway? A friend is just someone who smiles at your face then stabs you in the back. And I don't need that. I don't trust anybody. Because that's the way it works in this world. Dog eat dog. Every man for himself.

I guess I was close to having a friend once. I got dangerously close to Sherlock Holmes when I discovered me and him were extremely alike, that he was a genius too. That was a big mistake. He did what most people do and found someone else. That John Watson, who everyone seems to love. And then there was Molly Hooper, who I dated for a while. I could see right through her. She was only dating me because Sherlock was more interested in putting his tongue down John's throat than hers. I didn't bother making any decent conversation with her. But she was nice – I liked Molly Hooper. Too bad she decided she didn't like me back.

So that's all I have to say. I'm tired of wafting around school like some kind of ghost, waiting for people to notice me. I guess that's what happens when you're a freak– you don't have friends, you don't have relationships, you don't have a life. Just goes to show what a messed up world we live in.

It's time someone made a change.


	8. Epilogue part 1

**Epilogue **

I scrolled down the list of problems written by my own students, doing my best not to let my eyes glass over. I never knew of such pain. I'd have never been able to tell that Sherlock was being abused or Jim felt invisible or John was being wracked by nightmares every night. I was glad to see that some of their lives were improving, but for others it was a different story. I couldn't believe I had been so blind. I was _Greg Lestrade_, head teacher of Brookside Secondary school, an ex police officer who was always alert to trouble or danger. I'd been so preoccupied with my own issues; I didn't even notice how a few of my students were suffering.

My wife left me not long ago, and since her departure I've been drinking more than I should be. The anti-depressants are unresponsive and neither therapy nor counselling has had any effect. I've been trapped in a warp of misery for months now, slowly sinking to new lows. In school I am snappier then I should be, I take my increasing fury out on the students, not even realising they were going through hell already.

I'm lucky to still have my job after what happened that day in the classroom. That's putting it lightly. I'm lucky to still be alive.

I'd been called into one of the classes to break up a squabble between two of the pupils. Well, I say squabble. More like a full on fist-fight.

I was surprised at who the perpetrators were; Sherlock Holmes (the child genius) and Jim Moriarty (the kid everyone barely noticed.) Jim seemed the victim during the fight; Sherlock was on top of him, pressing his thumbs into his eyes as if to blind him whilst their fellow classmates screamed and tried to pull them apart. I didn't care who had started this duel, nor did I care who finished it. I marched over and pulled them apart myself. Both were bruised and Jim was bleeding from the nose, but no permanent damage seemed to have been done.

"That's enough! Sherlock, go into the corner! Jim, keep still, you'll only make it worse" I barked out in teacher mode.

"I'll kill him!" Jim screeched and would have lunged at Sherlock had I not held him back, "I'll kill him, I'll _kill_ him!"

He went on repeating it, till he was red in the face. Sherlock stared back at him coolly, his patience angering the other boy further.

"Sherlock" I managed to restrain Jim and he stopped struggling, "You know I won't tolerate violence in this school. Apologise"

"He called me a freak…" Sherlock replied, edging towards his desk.

"I said go to the corner! And don't come out until you apologise"

He ignored my order, but he never took his eye off of me. I saw him reaching into his bag. And pulled something silver and shiny out.

Jesus, it wasn't…

It was without a doubt.

The kitchen knife seemed wrong in Sherlock's hands; it was too big and he was too young. He pointed it to Jim's throat and I prayed to the God I didn't believe in that he wouldn't press into the skin. Sally started hyperventilating and clutched the sides of her desk in a strained effort to keep herself on her feet. John curled up in the corner with Anderson, both of them clutching each other in fright. A small pool of yellow had formed at Molly Hooper's feet but she barely noticed.

"Sherlock…" I held out a hand, "Sherlock, put the knife down"

He shook his head, eyes transfixed on the target in front of him, "I'm going to cut him" he hissed, "I'm going to cut him good…"

"No one's going to cut anybody"

"I'm going to cut his throat"

Jim whined, going limp in my hold. I did my best not to start shaking.

"No one's going to get cut Sherlock…"

"You always get cut when you cry. That's the rule. Crying is for the weak, weak little bastards…" his arm trembled and I took that opportunity to disarm him. He let go of the weapon without a struggle; he was trembling too hard. I ordered him to the corner again and this time he obeyed.

"It wasn't his fault!" little John cried out from the corner. He was cradling Anderson, who was sobbing in fear, "It was that Jim Moriarty! He's the one who started it!"

I was lost in this turmoil of chaos. I couldn't believe these were children talking. They were all ashen faced and pale, it didn't look right on their dainty little faces. A smash of glass startled us all and I turned to see Sherlock was at the door, repeatedly dashing his head against the glass so a spider web pattern of cracks appeared on the frame. Anderson wailed harder and covered his ears at the sound, while the puddle around Molly's feet got larger and Irene hid her eyes. I observed several splashes of blood fly out from his skin and soon both his hands and forehead were stained red. I released Jim and ran to him, pulling him away before he killed himself. He collapsed against me sobbing, red water streaming from his head and down his nose, dripping to his chin.

Their teacher looked like she was going to faint, "I'm calling the police." she muttered, but I shook my head at her.

"He's dead!" he screamed, "The bastard's dead!" he resorted to making a sound like a dog that had its neck caught in a vice, "And I'm glad it happened, it's the first time I danced in years!"

He dissolved into sobs and I held onto him dumbfounded. It took me minutes to realise he was talking about his father, who he always called "the bastard", and when I glanced down I realised the cuts and bruises lining the child's arms were not from his fight with Jim, but from his own father, and that the only adult influence in his life was now gone forever. But maybe that was for the best in his case.

I started stroking his hair to calm him. He seemed unreponsive to my caress; he was trapped in a world of his own now. I didn't noticed Jim retrieve the knife off of the floor. I only noticed when I glanced up and saw him a meter away from me, both hands grasped on the weapon, shaking so hard he was struggling to stand.

"Stupid freak…" he muttered through his sobs, gripping until his knuckles were white, "I'm going to kill him…"

"Jim…" I kept Sherlock out of the firing line and spoke gently, "No one's killing anyone. Just calm down…"

He shook his head, water dropping onto the floor.

"Sick…" he mumbled, "Sick of being invisible. Sick of the freak. Sick of you"

"Jim-"

"I'm going to kill him. I'm going to cut him, I'm going to cut _you_"

"Stop it, stop it, stop it!" Anderson wept, repeating the same words over and over until he looked sick.

Jim was past saying anything now, he was crying so hard. I peered over to where the other children were huddled together, pitying their terrified faces. This was all too dramatic, too adult. It wasn't right, it was all wrong. In those split few seconds that I was off guard, Jim lunged forward ready to spill Sherlock's blood, and deciding at that moment in time that the young genius' life was worth more value than mine, I reached out a hand and something sunk deep into my abdomen, spraying red water everywhere.

All I can remember next is the screaming.


	9. Epilogue part 2

Mr. Lestrade was lucky. It could have been a lot worse.

After a few weeks in hospital, he was discharged but unfortunately never returned to teaching. He returned to the police force instead and was soon promoted to Detective Inspector, due to his swift mind and patience. Sherlock's abuse was reported to the police and he and his brother were moved to a care home until the court could find a legal guardian to take them in. John visited Sherlock as often as he could, and during the summers they would go to the lake together, just the two of them, and talk about life - which for them was an interesting thing to talk about. Irene's mother was offered a job as a seamstress and gave up prostitution. Irene, however, found herself a boyfriend who treated her badly and soon got mixed in with the wrong crowd. After the incident at school, Sally Donovan isolated herself from her friends and never spoke to anyone, afraid she'd cause havoc if she ever opened her mouth. Peter Anderson was treated for shock at the hospital after the stabbing, and whilst in there he was diagnosed with epilepsy, which stuck with him for the rest of his life. Molly went on a long search for love when she reached adolescence, but so far has not found the right person yet. A police report went out stating Jim Moriarty was on the run and no one had seen him since the stabbing. Part of Sherlock was glad he was gone but another side of him hoped someone would be able to help the boy, put his mind back on track. He was obviously a disturbed child. He needed help.

In the end, they all did.


End file.
